


Momentary Pain Can be Pleasure Lain

by essexgrl68



Category: Blur (Band)
Genre: Glastonbury, Gramon, M/M, MLIR era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-13
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:20:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28056036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/essexgrl68/pseuds/essexgrl68
Summary: Glastonbury 1992 era, bus fic.  This one has been in the works for two years, and tbh I was sorely tempted to trash it because a recent bus fic set in the same era that is SO INCREDIBLE made me reconsider finishing this one.  (Please, check out the fantastic hiroshimalovers, their work is beautiful). But a discussion about fic in general, the history of it, the fact that a lot of queer and/or trans questioning people find comfort and their voice here, made me come back to it.  I'm one of those people, and I'm proud to be part of this community.  I hope you enjoy this, thank you for reading.
Relationships: Damon Albarn/Graham Coxon
Comments: 12
Kudos: 21





	Momentary Pain Can be Pleasure Lain

‘You’re so fucking violent!” 

Graham felt a surge of nervous nausea hit his guts as Damon’s voice sailed out over the crowd. He couldn’t tell what the origin of it was: excitement, beer, or the fact that they’d not slept or eaten properly for almost a week. Damon’s observation took in all of them, actually, the band and the surging humans in front of them. The sun was too hot and the crowd was a swirling kinetic mass, and how much of their enthusiasm was directed toward the stage was impossible to determine. The heat and stench and explosive energy of them was stoking Damon; Graham could see it in his stance and then in the hypnotic jumping as the intro began. Graham bent over his guitar, starting the roaring build to their traditional knees-up encore. Glastonbury was the pinnacle so far and they’d been elated and terrified and Damon had had far too much to drink and Graham was livid with him. Positively livid. For many reasons, some of which made him almost as livid with himself. “Don’t watch him” he thought to himself. ‘For fuck’s sake don’t watch him. Concentrate on the guitar.”

Glastonbury was, at this moment, the holy grail. Stuck in Colchester, struggling in London, it was always the goal. Weirdly though, once here, it felt peculiar: close enough to home base for their families and girlfriends to interfere with the fraternal electricity needed for the band to function properly. Something about the vibe hadn’t been quite on and Graham knew that Damon’s pouring the drink down his throat had a lot to do with this. Nerves. God, he looked amazing though. The suit and the boots and his fresh haircut…Graham had had to consciously look away from him all day and he realized that that necessity was the reason for a good part of his frustration and his anger with himself. 

They’d been busy. They’d been touring, there were documentary cameras on them. America had been a disaster and they’d barely been speaking outside the studio since returning and heading to the festival circuit. Damon had been writing obsessively since returning from the States and the demos were brilliant. They knew they were on the cusp of something important and his ambition had been infectious, his work ethic relentless. They were spending almost all their time together, the four of them, but Graham MISSED him. And he was kicking himself for being selfish. This was what they had dreamed about when they were in their teens. A real band. Gigs. A contract. Mates to make music with. Real music, something the four of them tore into and tore apart and put back together into songs that had them grinning like fools at each other across the studio. There was an intimacy there, between the four of them, and now Streetie, and it was precious, Graham knew, to all of them. When it was clicking, on stage and day by day in the studio, it was magical. But the past few weeks had become a slog. The cameras were intrusive, there was too much drink and not enough food and the hour in front of the audience was not quite, right now, compensation enough. 

Graham knew exactly what he needed. His Damon. Not the driven little demon that was right now stalking about the stage beside him, the one whose single-mindedness had put them there. It was a confused craving though. He was unsure whether he wanted giggling snuggly humming Damon, Damon hogging the biscuits, Damon unabashedly pulling him into a hug as the two of them huddled together on a couch in a Colchester parlour watching Quadrophenia again, just the blue light of the telly screen illuminating them...or the Damon who woke him too early in the morning with wet kisses to the nape of his neck and a warm hand slinking down his belly, a single hoarsely whispered word in his ear: “Please…” The one with heat in those beautiful eyes, who Graham would end up hovering over and sinking into again and again as Damon whimpered and arched up towards him. Both. Absolutely both. He needed those glowing eyes to look at him as if he were the only important person in the world. He knew his anger originated in the realization that Damon had been too preoccupied to notice that Graham needed him, badly - and in realizing how powerless he was himself in the face of his addiction to this person.

What the - what the hell was he doing? Oh shit. Graham winced in horror but kept playing, watched as Damon rolled and righted himself nearby, only Graham seeing the brief blanching of his face as he leant down quickly: “Dames, you OK?” He was unheard and Damon hopped, hurtled himself across the stage to hit the offending speaker yet again, regain his feet, unbelievably, and yell angrily into his mic. Jesus, he must have broken that heel. Just keep it going, lean into the mic, another minute and they’ll be offstage. Stupid! Stupid over-confident drunken idiot… Damon tossed the mic and hurried backstage without acknowledging the crowd, shoulders slumping in relief. Graham let his guitar squeal into feedback, said a brief thank you, and followed his friend. 

The usual group of backstage staff and hangers on milled about as Graham watched from a few yards behind as Damon ran-stumbled down the ramp and fled to the side of a van, collapsing in the grass, moaning and unlacing his boot. Graham’s progress to his friend was interrupted by a hand clasping his arm, a grinning ginger headed Jamie Hewlett attached to it. “Bloody fantastic, you sounded great up there!” He ruffled Graham’s hair, trying to get his full attention. Graham stopped short with his gaze still on the figure hunched in the grass, boot off now and surrounded by a concerned Dave and and a gesturing, shouting Ifan. Damon’s head was slumped almost between his knees, thin wrists drooping, fatigue and pain now obvious. Jamie followed his gaze. ‘Looks like they’ll be off to the medic tent. What did he think he was doing up there?” Graham tried to shake him off. “I should go.” Jamie tightened his grip. “I think Ifan has it under control...come and let’s get into the shade, get something to eat. You look almost as done in as he does.” 

Graham hesitated. He was famished and wanted a cup of tea desperately. Stu and Ifan had righted Damon, supporting his slender frame between them, he now condescending to keeping the injured foot off the ground as they started away to the nurses’ tent. Graham cast one more beseeching look towards them, sighed and shrugged. “Alright.” Jamie shook his head a little as they walked away. “I hope he thinks as much of you as you do of him. Personally I have no idea why you put up with him, Graham. Seems a selfish cunt to me.” Graham coloured and touched his fingers to his brow, his fringe. “He, he does. Think of me. It’s hard to explain...he’s my best mate, Jamie. I know him better than anyone.” Graham bit his lip, gave Jamie a slight smile. Jamie chuckled. “You’re gone on him, Coxon. Better you than me, that’s all I can say.” 

The sun was starting to mellow slightly in the mid-summer sky but it was still oppressively hot as they reached the performers’ concession tent and joined the queue for drinks and sandwiches, both opting for cheese and pickle but Jamie getting a lager to Graham’s mug of tea. Graham smiled almost apologetically. “Been overdoing it a little the past while.” Jamie’s mouth quirked upwards and his eyes twinkled. “The bunch you hang around with, that’s no surprise.” 

They found a spot at the long tables and Graham sighed with relief. “You back to London tonight, then?’ Jamie asked. Graham shook his head, mouth full, waved his hand a bit to request a moment to chew. “Nah...well, maybe Dave and Als, I’m not sure. We’d talked about staying on at least til tomorrow to catch a few more acts, Damon and I did, anyway. Ifan’s keeping the bus here, we have it another couple of days. We have a bit of time before studio again and we’ll need a break now, I’m sure.” 

Jamie chuckled. ‘After your mate monkeying around and laying himself up, you’ll have to.” He looked intently at Graham’s face for a reaction and clocked the immediate darkening of his features, the more-than concern that crossed the pretty face. “Damn, I need to find him. I wonder if they took him back to London!” He grabbed for his tea and hastily gulped, spluttering a little. Jamie laid a hand on his arm. “Graham, we’ve only been gone a few minutes. They’ll still be waiting to be seen, don’t worry. There are enough heatstroke and indulgence casualties, it’ll be busy there. You’re not quite famous enough yet for star treatment, not even Damon.” He waited for Graham to relax and take up his sandwich again, and they ate in silence for a bit. 

“You’ve drawn him?” Jamie pointedly didn’t look directly at Graham for his response, waited as the boy blushed and ducked his head, Jamie not quite knowing why he’d asked the question, a bit ashamed at the tickling of prurient interest, and now feeling almost guilty especially at Graham’s immediate discomfort. He touched Graham’s hand. “Sorry. Too personal. I can be a prick. Artistic curiosity. He’s beautiful, I’ll give him that, but that’s something beyond his control.” Jamie took another gulp of the lager, it growing tepid in the heat. “I’ve got to admit I’ve thought about drawing the lot of you, if you’d let me. There’s something intriguing about the jumble of your faces. Lots to work with.” He was trying for appeasement, Graham not having looked his way yet. 

Graham downed the rest of his tea and brushed the sandwich crumbs off his striped jacket, turned to look at Jamie in the eye. He straightened his shoulders and took a breath. Something about Jamie’s quick apology, something about Jamie himself, gave him the courage to respond. “I’ve drawn him since the first day I met him. Before then, if I’m honest. Dozens and dozens, probably hundreds. No-one will ever see them but me, though, so don’t ask.” He sighed. “It’s my version of a diary, I suppose. And a futile attempt to capture him that I’ll never succeed at.” 

Graham loosened the neck of his jersey and touched the beads at his neck. “He made these for me, Jamie, before I left for London, after we were done school. Do you understand?” Graham’s gaze was no longer shocked or embarrassed, it was steady and warm. “I don’t have to justify it to anyone and nobody would truly get it, anyway. Nobody else knows him like I do. He’s...so much more than he projects, than he lets on. Yes, he does reckon me more than you’d imagine.” Graham was gently smiling, relieved to be talking to someone who seemed, despite his skepticism about Damon’s worthiness, to at least be non-judgemental about their unusual situation. Jamie smiled back, took out his packet of cigarettes and offered Graham one. “Ta.” He leaned towards Jamie for a light and was mildly surprised and pleased when Jamie leaned in quickly and pressed his lips briefly to Graham’s cheek. “You’re sweet, Graham. He’s lucky.” He fumbled in his pocket for a lighter and they smoked companionably for a few minutes, the sounds outside the tent diminishing as the early evening exodus for the festival grounds started after the supper time break.

Sunset was drawing on slowly, it being high summer. The tops of the trees surrounding the site were catching the longer rays, blazing them golden, and there were coral pink streaks in the high cloud decorating the blue sky. Quite a few of the festival goers had chosen to take to the campsite early and Jamie and Graham stepped carefully among the tents, still-occupied boots and sandals stretching from a lot of them. They could overhear bits of song and conversation coming from inside the caravans parked alongside. Jamie glanced at Graham, who had a wistful smile on his face. “Damon and me, back in Colchester - walking home after school, he’d stop and listen every time if there were music coming out of a house. Always curious. He loved it when there’d be lights on and you could see into someone’s parlour. Said everyone had little dramas going on.” Jamie drew on his cigarette and blew the smoke to the side as they continued in the general direction of the band gathering area. “Do you think there’ll ever be a time when he’s not your reference point, Graham?” 

It was said with gentle teasing. Graham blushed, and shook his head. Jamie watched him closely as they walked side by side towards the line of busses. There was such beauty in the boy. He was truly enchanting with his shy, occasionally fumbling gestures, his seemingly obliviousness to his own charms, the depth and mystery hinted at in the skill and power of his guitar. Jamie had been sincere in his compliment and his kiss.

The two boys had reached the Blur bus and Graham hesitated outside the door, suddenly uncomfortable, not certain if Jamie should be invited within. Jamie grinned. “It’s okay, Graham. I’ve got to get back to London, there’s a ride waiting for me. Hope he’s alright.” Graham visibly relaxed. “Thanks, Jamie, thanks for the meal and the chat. I’d better check on him now, if he’s still here.” “Cheers, Graham. And I am serious about wanting to draw the band. Call me when you’re back in town.” 

The atmosphere inside the bus was, to put it mildly, revolting. Graham almost gagged as he opened the door and cleared the top step. He leaned over each seat and tugged the side windows open as he advanced down the bus, hugely relieved at the flow of cool evening air from the field outside. The curtain bisecting the bus, hiding the bunks, rattled open and a very disgruntled Ifan huffed at him. “Thank Christ. You can take over babysitting his highness.” He clapped Graham on the shoulder, grinning for a second before his usual dark scowl descended again. “Good luck. He’s already puked twice. His foot is wrapped and he’s full of pain meds. His mum and dad are coming tomorrow to take him, and you, I guess, back up to London for x-rays. It’s a damned good thing we’ve a few weeks off.” Ifan indicated the back section of the bus. “There’s a thermos of tea and I think there’s some biscuits in the tin. I’m off.” He stalked to the front, as usual somehow seeming much larger than his squat stature, lit his perpetual ciggy and gave Graham a last nod before slamming shut the door. Graham waited a beat. As expected, the door flew open again. “They gave him one crutch, it’s all they could find. It’s beside him.” Ifan, encore.

Damon was half-sitting in a lower bunk, eyes shut, offending foot neatly wrapped. To Ifan’s credit, he at least had propped the injury up on a pillow, but bizarrely hadn’t removed the other boot, or encouraged Damon to do so. His new trousers had been demolished, medical scissors having neatly snipped apart one leg. One of Graham’s cardigans was draped over the now soiled dress shirt, and the tie had disappeared. Graham sighed. He knelt beside the bunk. Exasperation almost overtook tenderness. But not quite. Damon asleep, or feigning sleep, was entirely too angelic, and achingly reminiscent of dozens of nights not very many years ago when Graham would sit, wide awake, and gaze at the perfection of his best friend’s face. “Des.” Damon’s brow furrowed, and he grimaced as his beautiful eyes fluttered open, clouded with pain, or meds, or both. Nevertheless, he smiled when he saw Graham crouched, holding the bunk curtain back. “Graham, I wanna go up to the Tor. Can we go up to the Tor? It’s sacred here, y’know. Like Primrose Hill.” 

Graham couldn’t help smiling. Trust Damon to be dreaming about the faeries. “You’re mad. Let me take off your other boot, it’s filthy and you need to rest properly.” He leaned in and unlaced the clunky Doc Marten boot, trying his best to not jostle Damon’s other leg as he pulled it off. Damon regarded him blearily, still smiling gently. “Not kidding, Gra. We do need to climb up there. Tomorrow.” 

“What kind of nurse did you see? You’re flying.” Graham shook his head. “I’m getting you some tea. It must be days since you’ve eaten anything.” The “kitchen” of the bus consisted of a tiny sink, kettle, mini fridge full of beer and thankfully a pint of milk. The mentioned tin was full of assorted digestives and Hob Nobs. Graham’s heart skipped. He’d made a wish, and in a strange muddled way, it was coming true. Graham sloshed a bit of milk into the mug of thankfully still hot, and evidently strong, tea and grabbed a packet of biscuits. “Des, here. You need something on your stomach.” Damon clutched the mug and slurped, fumbled with a digestive and smiled again at his friend. “Ifan’s not happy with me.” Graham nodded. “Well, sometimes he needs taking down a notch. When he gets umphy he’s like one of those Essex boys that threatened us with a kicking.” 

Damon took another swig, brighter looking blue eyes dancing at Graham over the edge of the mug. “He makes a decent cuppa, though. Thank you, sweet, for fixing me a cup.” He laughed as Graham waved dismissively at him, his face mobile as it tried to decide whether to grin or frown. “You bastard, don’t call me that when I’m pissed at you, too.” Damon’s grin did not abate. “Yeah, I know, I can tell. You’ve been doing that thing with your mouth.” “What? What thing?” Graham tried to compose his features into a non-committal expression. Damon looked delighted, as he always did when catching Graham unawares. “Your lips. You press them together when you’re exasperated. You’ve been doing it since I opened my eyes.” 

“Well, I am.” Graham had fixed himself a mug of tea and sat down on the bunk opposite, stretching his long legs out across the crumpled blankets. “Why on earth did you decide the speakers were an enemy? You’ve knackered your foot, haven’t you?” Damon gingerly tried to rotate his ankle, wiggled the pink toes poking out of the bundle of bandage. Pain flickered briefly over his face. “It’s not too bad. Nurse said I likely have a bone chip in there and they’ll blast it with a laser after they x-ray it.” He gave the foot another turn, happy when he was successful. “See? It’s not even too sore.” Graham scoffed. “They gave you enough drugs to make you drowsy. Just wait til they wear off.” His face softened. “I don’t like when you’re reckless. Remember that time in Fiddler’s Wood? When you almost drowned?” Damon set down his tea and reached for Graham’s hand, didn’t receive it, gestured again, and smiled blissfully when Graham let him entwine his fingers with his. “Yeah. You were there to help me. Just like you are now.” He tugged at his hand. “C’mere. Giss a kiss. I’m sorry. It’s been too long since we’ve talked. Maybe I did myself an injury subconsciously on purpose.” 

Graham drained his mug and shuffled off the bunk, not able to hide his smile as he leaned down and gently pressed his lips to his friend’s. “I hate you, you know.” Damon stroked his cheek. “Yeah. I know.” His hand guided Graham’s head closer again, brushed their lips together. “You’d do anything for me though, wouldn’t you.” Graham nodded, their foreheads touching, smiling again. “Of course, you idiot.” “Good, because I need to piss. And I want to see the stars. It smells rank in here. Help me outside?” He handed Graham the ancient crutch. “Fine. Be careful. And I’m not holding your dick.” Damon pursed his lips, eyes twinkling, and had the gall to wink at him. 

“Feel better now?” Damon, always up for a challenge, had proved sufficiently adept with the crutch to get round the side of the caravan to water the grass. Ifan had had the forethought, or had been warned to, park the bus close enough to the outer verge of the camping area that it gave them some privacy and allowed for inevitable loud rowdiness. There was none of that tonight; the crew had vanished. There were far away sounds from the stages, but close by, nothing but the crickets and the occasional bird, still active in the gorse alongside. 

“Much. It’s really not so bad, you know. I can hobble on it a bit.” Damon demonstrated, half-hopping over to where Graham had sat himself at the wooden picnic bench alongside the bus. The heat of the day had finally abated, twilight just ended, and Damon’s wished-for stars were beginning to show themselves in a sky unimpeded by city lights. 

“It’s like that summer when we camped out. Remember how angry your mum was? That I dragged you along?” Damon lay his head on his arms folded on the table, surveying the stars, and Graham’s face. 

“Yes, of course I remember. We rough slept for over a week. No luxurious accommodations that summer. Just the campfire and a bedroll.” Graham had his chin on his hands, looking upwards. “You taught me how to build a fire. And to count the stars. And to appreciate your mum’s cooking even more. I’ll have to thank her tomorrow, again.” 

Damon laughed. “I suppose it wasn’t quite honestly playing at tramps, was it. We were never too far from Hazel’s kitchen for the evening meal. Soft, we were, really. I never told them that I cheated.” 

Graham chuckled, low. “You’d think you made up the whole assignment just to drag me into the woods every night.” He caught himself, startled a bit, and looked across at Damon. “You DIDN’T!” Damon laughed again. “No. It was a real assignment. But I could have done it solo; I didn’t want to. I’d missed you too much.” He paused. “I’ve missed you for the past few months.” Graham caught his breath. It had happened again, as it had for all the years of their friendship: Damon had read his mind. Graham felt a rush of happiness at knowing that they still could communicate beyond his guitar translating Damon’s songs into sound. It simply took them being together alone, and their thoughts slipped into each other’s. “Me, too.” Damon took his hand, circled the palm with his thumb. “I taught you more than how to build a fire and find constellations, that week.” 

Graham leaned closer, beckoned Damon to do the same, and they kissed languidly, Damon playing with his friend’s long fingers. Graham broke the kiss, breathless, cheeks aflame, and looked around. “It’s okay,” Damon murmured, “there’s no one about. I don’t really care if there were.” Another kiss. 

“Dammit.” Graham shuffled on the bench. Damon laughed softly. “Haven’t lost my touch, then? Should we go inside?” 

“This is what happens when we ignore each other for months,” Graham half scowled, but couldn’t resist the bright eyes and wide smile of his friend. “Together almost twenty-four hours a day and never a chance to…” 

Damon grinned. “Fuck?” He couldn’t hide his pleasure at Graham’s candid confession. “Two kisses and I get you hard. It’s like we’re sixteen again.” He tucked the crutch under his arm and made as if to stand up. “Wait! Let me help you.” Graham came round the bench and let Damon lean into him. 

“It’s not even the sex, Des.” Graham paused. “ Well, okay, that’s a lie. But I just miss having you to myself. Even though you drive me mad half the time.” Graham took full advantage of his being taller than Damon and slung his arm around the boy’s slender shoulders, holding Damon firmly to his side, deliciously satisfied with feeling his friend accept the help and press into him. 

He nuzzled quickly into the blond hair, inhaling the scent he’d known for years, that he had sought out in post-sleepover pillows that he’d pressed his face into as he’d slipped his hand into his pyjama bottoms. It never failed, that intoxicating Damon perfume that went directly to his cock. Those nights had distilled all the confusing feelings he’d been having for months at that age: with his gaze shifting from poster to poster on his grey-toned midnight bedroom wall. Ray Davies, Keith Moon, Paul Weller, pretty boys who shouldn’t be in his thoughts late at night, pretty boys who he traded out with thoughts of pretty girls from the school hallways, pretty boys and girls but no one as pretty as his best friend. And he’d closed his eyes and conjured Damon’s face, Damon’s voice, Damon’s body, Damon’s scent, and given in. 

“Lock the door, love.” 

The bus was completely dark now. Damon had hobbled back to the bunk and switched on the battery light over the bed, was sat gracelessly on the edge, unbuttoning his shirt. Backlit, he looked like an angel. Graham stumbled in the aisle, tripping on the boot that he’d tossed out of the bunk earlier. “Careful, Gra. Don’t need you going down too.” He grinned. “Those boots probably saved me from breaking the ankle. Good investment.” 

Graham nudged it out of the way, sat opposite and took off his shoes and jacket. ‘Where’s the other one? Once the song gets known, the crowds will expect to see them.” 

Damon rested back on his elbows, looking more earthly now, broad chest and flat belly bare. “Your song.” His eyes were soft. “Y’what?” Graham gaped at him. “Of course it is, Gra. ‘I don’t really want to change a thing, I want to stay this way forever.’ C’mere.” Graham leaned into the bunk, more gingerly than he usually did, wedging himself carefully in beside his friend. “All of them are yours, Graham.” 

Damon’s fingers gently grasped Graham’s chin, turning his head towards him, and he didn’t have to prompt him further. They kissed until they were breathless, and Damon, never one to hesitate, was luxuriating in Graham’s soft moans as he teasingly caressed his erection through his jeans. “Mon petit ami,” Damon breathed softly, tongue licking at Graham’s lips, watching intently as his eyes darkened as Damon’s touch got harder, more insistent. Graham chuckled. “Such a romantic. French isn’t your forte, but I’ll take it.” He groaned at a particularly tight squeeze. “Fuck. Let me....” He fumbled with his belt, unbuttoned his jeans, happily allowing Damon to overwhelm him with kisses all the while. 

They may as well have been back in Colchester, in Damon’s bedroom, in the back of the music hut, at the riverside. It was exactly what Graham needed: a gentle, earnest, somewhat fumbled, absolutely affectionate handjob from his oldest, his best, his forever friend. Damon murmuring endearments, calling him darling, angel, pet; Damon treating him like he was the most precious person on earth. Damon touching him hungrily, gently, perfectly.

He tucked his head into Damon’s neck, panting softly, anxious to not drown out the constant stream of “I love you, I love you, I love you’ being breathed softly into his hair. Graham tensed, moaned, tried to stifle the moan, forgetting for a moment that they had the bus to themselves. “Yes, pet,” Damon cooed. “That’s lovely, you’re so lovely.” 

Damon rubbed his hand on the already stained counterpane that covered the bunk, giggling at Graham’s grimace. “Ifan will find it,” he protested. Damon laughed. “The bus smells like a wank rag half the time. Don’t worry.” He settled back into the bunk, eyes sleepy and content, watching his friend rearrange his clothes. “Grem. Come here.” 

They snuggled happily, Graham sated, blissful, curled around Damon, letting him rest the sore ankle on top of his own. He sighed. Just before sleep, he nuzzled into Damon’s hair again. “He wants to draw you. Us. Jamie. He thinks you’re lovely...the rest of us are ‘interesting’.” Damon chuckled. “We’ll see. He’ll never catch me the way you do, love. Never.” Graham smiled into the back of the beloved head, drew him closer. In minutes, they were asleep.


End file.
